Bare Your Weapon
by Tamer Lorika
Summary: Japan does not like conflict, but he will not sit idly by if the one he love is threatened. Written in an exchange with Inari Kasugawa. May continue.


**Holy crap, I have no idea what the hell I'm doing. Oh wait, is that news? I guess not. **

**So… I wrote this in exchange with Inari Kasugawa – I would recommend checking out her stuff! It's all quite varied and VERY well-written; I've enjoyed it thoroughly. My prompt was to write something "sweet and loving" for UKxJapan. *bows* I hope it turned out okay. **

* * *

Kiku had a deep respect for deference, for amiability, and for the ability to avoid conflict. When arguments persisted, they made his head hurt, his stomach turn. Quite simply, he disliked it when others were angry. It was sad. He knew the world was not a perfect place (too well, too well) but if arguments could be avoided then maybe, possibly, a little bit of heartache could be avoided.

World meetings were, understandably, not his favorite places to be.

"Neh, neh, Giappone! Are you okay? You look kinda pale – did you eat breakfast today?" asked Italy, bounding up to his friend and former ally. Japan turned and carefully constructed a calm smile. His head hurt a great deal, but Germany had called a fifteen minute break while he attempted to pry Greece and Turkey off of each other. Japan had been hoping for a break to get a drink of water, but he was also pleased to see Italy.

"Do not worry about me, Italia-chan." Italy giggled at the nickname. "And yes, I had breakfast. Soba, left over from last night." Soba was not strictly breakfast food, but maybe Italy was right in some ways; noodles were sometimes necessary.

Italy's eyes widened. "You ate it_ all~?_"

Japan's smile grew a little warmer, a little more real. "Of course I did. What did you expect?" He knew exactly what Italy expected, but tried not to let on.

"You didn't save any? You know…um… for someone special?"

"You mean like Arthur-sa… Arthur?" Japan bit his tongue, remembering at the last minute to leave off the honorific. Arthur said it sounded too formal, and Japan himself felt the slightest bit giddy at such familiarity between them. Of course, they were already…boyfriends…

Italy looked down at his feet. "Oh. Um. Yeah, for Arthur. Of course. Cuz you and him are in love right? Like me and Germany. But, you know, you don't have to just make food for the person you like. You could make it for… I dunno… friends?"

Japan couldn't help but think that Italy was really adorable when he was trying to be subtle. He pulled a small tupperware box wrapped in a handkerchief from under his chair. "You mean like a certain ally?"

Italy's eyes widened in glee. "You did! You did save me some soba!" He snatched the box from Japan, bowing dutifully as he did so. "Thankyouthankyouthankyou!" he squealed, giving Japan a quick hug before running off to enjoy his midmorning snack. Japan fondly watched him go, catching a wink and a hesitant smile from Germany. Well, teasing Italy had been an amusing distraction, but… Japan's eyes flicked quickly to the head of a long meeting table, where some…conference business…was being worked out.

It was the three of them – America, France, and England. It always was. Every meeting, without fail, some sort of knock-down-drag-out would begin with those three at the hub. Today it revolved around whose currency was better. The fight was ridiculous.

Japan rested his head in his hands, watching the fight. He tried to focus on his boyfriend: how cute he looked when he was flustered, the way his brows would furrow and his hair would stand on end. There was a spark of empire left in him, a cocksure, arrogant glint in his eyes that made him undeniably sexy. But the anger and tension on the other side of the room marred England's inherent beauty. Japan tried to block out the whole fight, allowing himself to unwind slightly, hoping to close his eyes for a brief respite before Germany called the meeting to order again.

The argument grew louder. Even across the room, Japan was able to make out most of the words:

"The dollar is a million times better than the stuffy old pound, or the euro! You're both flailing!"

"Bloody hell we are. The pound has been around for ages, and its not going anywhere. Don't mess with what's working, isn't that the phrase?"

"But it's not working! You're just too stubborn to see that you're being an idiot!"

"Mon amour, you should perhaps not be calling the kettle black –"

"Stay out of this, frog – this is now personal."

"You made it personal two hundred years ago when you decided to be an overpowering tyrant."

"Tyranny is nothing compared to complete idiocy!"

"I was smart enough to beat _you!_"

"Ha! Beat me? Have you ever thought that I may have just stopped caring about you?"

There was a slap-thud of flesh meeting muscle. Japan's half-closed lids shot open at the sight.

One moment, the three belligerent nations had been shouting obscenities at each other, bodies close but eyes flashing. The next moment, America had… he hit England squarely in the jaw.

It was as if a chunk of time had been obliterated, and Japan could not for the life of him figure out how he managed to get from where he sat to this position. On moment, he was cradling his cheek in one hand, watching with slitted eyes as three long-time enemies bickered. The next, he was in front of America, his katana naked and glinting and pressing against his throat hard enough to already have drawn blood. All Japan knew was he had somehow vaulted over the table.

Sparks pumped through his veins, and the tried to make sense of what he was seeing. There was panic in America's ice blue eyes; he looked terrified. The blood gliding across the silver katana was slow; there was not much. He had not caused damage. The thought was disappointing. His other arm was wrapped tightly around England's shoulders, drawing the slightly taller against his shoulder and neck. England was swearing, quietly, voice muffled in one hand cupping his mouth.

"_Amerika, ike. Ima_." Japan's voice shook, but his blade was steady. He didn't bother with politeness, speaking abruptly, with anger. England twisted from Japan's arm, removing his hand to rest on Japan's sword arm.

"Kiku, stop." There was blood dripping from his lip, Japan noticed. But his voice, at least, was the same; faintly annoyed, strong. He didn't seem like he was in pain, but this was… unacceptable. So Japan did not move.

He felt England sigh next to him. "Kiku, stand down. This _git_." He spat the word in America's direction, "Couldn't do any real damage." In a smaller voice, he murmured. "I'm okay, love, I've had worse."

Recognizing the danger was past, probably never existed, Japan allowed England to guide his arm and weapon away from America's neck. He felt foolish. He felt furious. He felt distinctly like he was going to throw up. He kept his other arm loosely around England's shoulders, trying to reassure himself he was here and solid and fighting mad.

Now that he was not faced with a blade at his neck, America's natural cockiness began to show through. "Yeah, both of you back down," he growled. "I could bomb you into submission. I _have_." He glared at Japan.

Japan gasped, a thousand fractured memories buried in the back of his head, throbbing, burning –

_Smack_.

England slapped America across the face, cold fire smouldering in his voice. "It never ceases to amaze me how utterly foolish you truly are."

America grunted, bit his lip, but did not fight back. His head bowed, apology in his eyes. He hadn't meant to say that, and Japan would have noticed, but his brain was not there, thrust back sixty-five years ago to pain and burning…

"Ludwig, I believe we take our leave for the day," England murmured, pulling Japan into himself and shooting a look at Germany. The room was silent, shocked, watching. Even Greece and Turkey had frozen. With that, England dragged the unresponsive Asian nation out the door.

As soon as they were in the hallway of the conference center, away from the meeting room, England took Japan's face in his hands and stared him in the eyes. "Are you with me, love?" he asked.

Japan blinked rapidly, trying to wrench his mind away from the spiral it was threatening to take.

"Hai… yes… I'm sorry. I should not have drawn a weapon." He shook his head "But…" He brushed the pads of his fingers across England's torn lip, gently, frowning. "I could not let that just pass."

England shook his head, snorting. "That one is a piece of work yet. He's harmless, really." Japan arched an eyebrow. England kissed him. Japan could taste drying blood, but it was overpowered by the taste of England. He relaxed slightly. Though kissing in public was something he rarely allowed himself to do, he rationalized that the hallway _was_ deserted – and besides, he desperately wanted this. So much it surprised him.

England snorted, breaking the kiss too quickly and tugging on Japan's wrists. Japan only realized now that he had his hands threaded tightly in England's hair. "You're hurting my scalp."

Japan blushed furiously, immediately clasping his unruly hands behind his back. "Sorry…"

England smiled, pecking him on the cheek. "Well, Ludwig excused us. What say we take the underground back to our hotel." Japan nodded, balling his hands into fists. What he really wanted to do was go back into the room and stab America in the diaphragm. Or drag England into a broom closet.

But no one but his cats and sometimes Elizabeta were allowed access to those more shameless corridors of his mind, and he quashed improper thoughts, allowing England to take his arm and lead him away.

* * *

"Kiku… Kiku, you're scaring me a bit, love, look at me."

Japan shook his head, clearing his vision and staring at England. He had been lost in his own past, a thousand different memories, some real and some imagined for his own sanity.

_Ka-chack ka-chunk, ka-chack ka-chunk_

The subway swayed beneath him, bumping over rails and sending bars of greasy orange light from the tunnels into the green fluorescence of the car. The sounds were too metallic, the feeling too unstable.

"I think I may be rail-sick," he murmured, and England put a hand to his forehead, twisting in his seat to peer worriedly into Japan's face.

"Does this happen a lot?"

Japan shook his head. "Its not… I mean… I think that I am angry." He knew what anger was, but it had been a very long time since it had surfaced. He knew bloodlust, surely, from recently and from far past; he knew desire and longing and pride and a base need to _keep things the same_ but the anger clawed at the walls of his stomach and choked his air and it had been a very very long time since he had truly felt that.

"Oh, Kiku, is this still about the meeting? I told you, Alfred is an idiot, but he never meant to say that to you, and he didn't mean to hit me." England said this with a sigh, running fingers through Japan's hair in a gesture that had become familiar to them both. Japan's eyes flickered instinctively around the subway car, but the few passengers sharing space did not seem interested in his own private drama. So he allowed himself to gingerly lean into the touch.

"I'm not…angry about that…" What Japan loved about the English language, about Arthur's language, was that it allowed him to improvise. He could begin a sentence without knowing the way it would end; so different from his own highly structured means of speech. English allowed him to flounder with his own thoughts, working things out as he said them. He began to speak out loud, just for the novelty of it, to let his mind work. "I'm not angry about Alfred… I mean, I am, but I'm mad _about_ him, not _at_ him. It's a…prepositional thing, yes?"

England just nodded, blinking, understanding more than anyone else would because this was _his_ language after all, and he knew the grammar rules.

"So you are angry at someone else?" he asked

"Me." Japan nodded to himself. "Yes. That is it. I am angry at myself.

"But bloody hell, _why?_" spluttered Arthur, caught off guard.

"I allowed someone to _hit you_. I am supposed to be…" Japan floundered. "A… I am supposed to be able to protect you. Right? I am your boyfriend. But I am a small island and I don't like to fight and I allowed someone to hit you."

The train screeched as it slowed to a stop, the inertia in the movement rocking Japan so that he leaned into England. England clutched at his shirtsleeve, buried his face into it. Japan was mildly alarmed, standing. "It's our stop. Are you feeling well?"

England looked up at him and he was _smiling_, in strange wonder and simple joy.

"Kiku, you pulled a bloody katana on the wanker. You are doing a fine job of protecting me."


End file.
